


Keep Myself

by ant5b



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Character of Color, Fenton gets hurt on the job, Gyro can be a good person if he tries, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: “Let me grab my tools,” Gyro says shortly, “And the first aid kit. Don’t move.”Fenton’s voice cracks when he laughs. “No problem.”





	Keep Myself

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://mighty-ant.tumblr.com/)  
> Check out my DuckTales podcast [here](http://amorespatospodcast.libsyn.com/)

Gyro’s in his apartment skipping through channels, considering ordering takeout, when Gizmoduck crashes onto his balcony. 

In his shock, he nearly jumps off the couch entirely, his heart lodging itself somewhere near his throat. Explosions and crashes may be the norm for Gyro, but since the whole Shadow War incident, he’s been a little more jumpy than he’d like. 

Probably something to do with his own shadow coming to life and trying to drown him. 

Either way, Gyro bolts to his feet ready for a fight, fingers itching for his Gearloose Radiant Ray ray gun. Seeing nothing more than the prone Gizmosuit crushing his flower pots is more of an annoyance than a relief.

Gyro scoffs, playing off his brief moment of genuine terror, though it was witnessed by no one but the walls of his apartment and his great-aunt’s creepy angel figurines shoved in a box in the corner. 

Embarrassed by his fear, Gyro starts snapping at Fenton before he’s even made it around the couch. 

_“What_ do you think you’re doing, Cabrera!” he demands waspishly as he yanks open the sliding door (which now has a crack running through out it!). “Haven’t you figured out how to use the rocket boosters without crashing by now?”

“S-sorry, Gyro,” Fenton stutters, surely a prelude to a long rambling apology and a promise to repair the damage. But then he stops there. 

Gyro freezes in the door frame, overwhelmed by the unsettling feeling of wrongness. 

Fenton hasn’t gotten up. He’s hunched over on the ground, still an impressive sight in the Gizmosuit even as dented and scuffed as it is. He’s got one arm holding up him and the other wrapped around his middle. And while his visor hides most of his expression, it can’t disguise the way Fenton’s beak trembles as he grits his teeth. 

“Fenton,” he says, different sort of fear crawling up his throat. 

“I-I’m sorry, Gyro,” Fenton repeats, and by his wobbling voice it’s clear that every word is a struggle,“I didn’t want to bother you, but I don’t think there’s anyone else who can help me.”

He removes his hand from the Gizmosuit’s middle to reveal the steady trickle of blood he’d been staunching. 

Fenton's blood. 

Gyro feels numb at the sight of it. Morbidly, he notes the it's a similar red to the suit’s insignia. 

“H-how?” Gyro asks, and now _he_ can’t speak. “What happened?”

“Some c-crazy robot by the harbor,” Fenton stammers, trying to get his wheel out from under him. “Trying to steal a shipment of Sc-Scrooge’s. It was firing these, not quite bullets, these dense, high velocity p-projectiles. One of them nicked me,” he says, and gestures helplessly to a smaller dent on the suit’s abdomen that Gyro hadn’t noticed, where Fenton’s blood is trailing out of. 

“The impact was too-too much, even for the suit,” Fenton explains, “I think a layer of armor b-bent, and it’s….it’s kinda stabbing me.”

Fenton sways in place, and Gyro’s brain restarts when his coworker almost face-plants into the balcony once more. 

Gyro ducks under the massive arm of the Gizmosuit, wrapping his arm around the suit as far as it’ll go. He tugs Fenton toward the door, albeit fruitlessly. 

“Then what are you doing out here _talking?”_ he snaps, but any heat behind his words has been diluted by the onset of dread and guilt. “Come on, get inside before you bleed to death.”

Fenton chuckles weakly as he starts wheeling forward. “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that.”

But then he has to bend over nearly in half to fit through the doorway, and the whimper he makes cuts Gyro to the quick. 

Fenton lowers himself to the ground the moment they’re inside, barely giving Gyro enough time to slip out from under his bulk. His breathing’s labored, but with his visor still down his expression’s strangely blank. 

“Let me grab my tools,” Gyro says shortly, “And the first aid kit. Don’t move.”

Fenton’s voice cracks when he laughs. “No problem.”

Gyro rushes off, first to his bedroom where his tools lay scattered on his desk. He makes a mess of shoving them all into his empty tool box, and then proceeds to make a mess of the bathroom in search of his industrial sized first aid kit. 

When one’s inventions have the nasty habit of turning evil, one learns to prepare for every eventuality. 

He comes back with heavily laden arms, and sets his burden down beside Fenton, who hasn’t moved in the few minutes since he’s been gone. 

Gyro kneels in front of his toolkit first, rifling through the chaos within. “I have my mag-pen here, that should hopefully do the trick in bending that broken piece back into place. I’ll weld it back into place properly later.”

“T-thanks, Gyro,” Fenton says, his voice even shakier than before. “I-I would’ve gone to the hos-hospital, but I couldn’t even disable the suit without d-digging the thing in deeper, and I can’t reach it myself—”

“You came to the right place,” Gyro says firmly, not looking up at Fenton. _“Aha!”_ he exclaims, pulling his mag-pen free of the clutter. “All the power of a super magnet in one portable, easy-to-use cylinder!”

“Why haven’t I seen that before?” Fenton asks curiously as Gyro starts fiddling with the settings. 

“Huh?” Gyro glances up. “Oh, it might’ve ripped the fillings out of an investor’s mouth.”

The mag-pen activates with a buzz, and Gyro makes another triumphant sound. “There we go! But first things first…” 

Gyro reaches up and presses the hidden switch that detaches the helmet from the rest of the Gizmosuit. It opens with a hydraulic hiss, and would’ve fallen to the floor had Fenton not caught it first. 

“Hey!” 

Without the helmet hiding Fenton’s face, the toll his injury is taking on him is made apparent. Fenton’s eyes are too-wide in his too-pale face, and his hair is matted to his forehead with sweat. He looks afraid, more so at having been exposed. 

“Gyro, what—” Fenton isn’t looking him in the eye. Instead, his gaze is trained on the helmet in his hands. 

Gyro lays a hand on Fenton’s chest, just over the insignia. “I need to make sure this won’t hurt you,” he he says, craning his head down to meet Fenton’s averted gaze. “It’s hard to see anything through that helmet of yours, and you’re not exactly one to admit when you’re hurt.”

Fenton swallows, but eventually nods shakily. He’s looking down at Gyro’s hand, still pressed against his chest. 

Gyro takes his hand back quickly, and picks up the mag-pen again. 

“Okay,” he says decisively. “Here we go.”

He presses the mag-pen near the edge of the divot on the suits abdomen, where Fenton’s blood has been steadily trickling out of. The magnet activates, and little by little, with the soft creak and groan of dura-steel, he pulls the torn pieces of armor out of the hole. 

It’s a grueling few minutes. Gyro has to keep his hand utterly still to avoid injuring Fenton further, and Fenton himself can’t move either, neither himself nor the suit. Gyro will glance at Fenton’s face periodically, slowing down when his face pinches in pain or he grunts weakly. Fenton keeps his eyes closed the entire time, and Gyro works as quickly as he is able. 

Finally, he’s pulled the piece free. He can see now how it tore and sharpened at the end, and his stomach roils at the blood still dripping from it. 

“You can disable the suit now, Fenton,” he says, already reaching for the first aid kit. 

Fenton nods weakly, his gaze alarmingly hazy. “I think I should go to a hospital now,” he mutters. The suit breaks apart around him in a cascade of falling parts, leaving Fenton sitting in the middle of the mess. 

As Gyro drags the first aid kit over to Fenton, he reminds himself to ramp up work on the suit upgrade that would be able to fold up into a briefcase. 

Fenton looks dazed, which doesn’t alarm Gyro as much as it first did. No, he’s more worried about how almost the entire right side of Fenton’s shirt has been stained red by his blood. 

Fenton slumps forward a little, and Gyro rushes to prop him up. He leans Fenton against the wall and pulls his shirt up to determine the actual extent of his injuries. Gyro finds a deep gash, maybe two or three inches long, in Fenton’s abdomen. It’s still bleeding, though sluggishly, and Gyro wastes no more time in wrapping Fenton entire midsection with gauze. 

“You still with me, Fenton?” he asks as he doubles and triples the layers of gauze. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t allow his hands to. 

Fenton nods tiredly. “Sorry about all this,” he mutters again. 

“Stop apologizing,” Gyro retorts. He pulls back to look over his handiwork. “You’re my…you’re my friend. And I’m going to help you.”

Fenton’s eyes widen, but Gyro doesn’t notice. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and selects one of his contacts, holding the phone up to his ear. “And be ready to go to the hospital in three minutes.”

Fenton blinks hazily. “An ambulance wouldn’t get us there that fast.”

“I’m not calling an ambulance,” Gyro replies, “I’m calling Launchpad.”

As often as Fenton’s been in the hospital since becoming Gizmoduck, he recognizes the sounds of one before he’s even fully awake.

The rush of people outside, squeaking floor, hushed voices and beeping machines. The smell of antiseptic in his nose. Someone snoring at his bedside. 

_That_ has Fenton climbing fully to wakefulness, though he’s still inhabiting the cloudy, blissful realm that is the providence of pain killers. 

Sitting beside his bed, in a position that can’t be comfortable, is Gyro. Either the chair’s too small or Gyro’s too tall, but his legs are stretched out in front of his and his head is craned back as he snores. His glasses are close to falling off his head. 

Fenton chuckles at the sight, and promptly groans at the sharp tug of pain in his gut. 

Gyro snaps awake, his head jerking up so fast Fenton is certain he got whiplash. His glasses end up halfway down his face, and he fixes them hurriedly, gaping as he does. 

“Fenton!” he says, voice rough from sleep. “Y-you’re awake.”

Fenton winces a the state of him, rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, dark circles under his eyes. Gyro looks like when he pulls an all-nighter at the lab (or several).

“I’m sorry,” he says, “Did you stay here the whole night?”

Gyro sniffs, straightening his wrinkled vest. “’Course I did. And I thought I told you to stop apologizing?”

Fenton only just stops himself from laughing again, leaning back against his pillows with a smile. “Yeah. I guess you did.”

He doesn’t expect it when Gyro reaches over to hold his hand, squeezing gently. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, not looking up. 

Fenton squeezes his hand back, and for a moment the pain is secondary. “Me too.”


End file.
